


Take A Breath, Count To Three

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Lucha Underground, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Male Slash, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting knocked out at Ultima Lucha Dos, Matt Striker wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. All of the people Vampiro is watch over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take A Breath, Count To Three

**Author's Note:**

> Set right after the season two finale Ultima Lucha Dos.

 

 

 

The first thing Matt was aware of was an astounding pain in his head. He wasn’t lying on the beer-slick floor by the announce desk, under the crowds’ feet or even close to the ring. Those were feelings he was completely familiar with and doubted would ever leave him His memory was impeccable, a real help in his previous and current jobs. But not now.

 

Wherever he was, it was only faintly lit. The smell was familiar – antiseptic and something that didn’t usually belong there. He tried to focus on the walls; they looked like they could be part of the Temple, but the usual roaring noise was only dull and thudding. Like it was a way away, above somehow?

 

He could remember what happened before. Pentagon Jr, no, Pentagon Dark. He’d seen that much before he’d been knocked out. Another familiar feeling. Matt hadn’t been stupid enough to believe that sitting at the announce table would mean safety. He’d been prepared to move, to defend himself, but he hadn’t been prepared for that.

 

And Vampiro, what had Pentagon done to him? Or had Vamp been part of the attack, had he been behind Pentagon's whole plan? He'd been proud enough and excited about Pentagon's transformation into Dark. He’d been, or still was, Pentagon’s revered master. The pain Matt felt in his chest at the idea of that betrayal, different to the hurt in his head, was another familiar wrestling feeling. Not now though, not...His teeth clenched, his eyes closed.

 

Part of the noises he could hear weren't dull or thudding, Matt realized. There was a voice, somewhere close, not muttering but almost. The words were clear, Spanish, prayers? The cadence was right and Matt knew enough Spanish from Vampiro and the research he’d done before starting at the Temple to recognize a good few handfuls of words. Vampiro had always taken shots at him for his accent, saying it was too clean, too New York. Didn’t have the heart and dirt in it yet, didn’t have Mexico.

 

Matt never tried to transform his accent when he spoke other languages. What was the point in trying to sound like someone or something he wasn’t? He made a point of being linguistically correct with enough of an accent that he honored the language he was speaking. Vampiro was the only real complainer anyway.

 

Someone was praying for him. Someone...Suddenly the quiet voice snapped into clarity as Matt’s heart jerked with it. Vampiro. Why hadn’t Matt noticed that immediately? He prided himself on his rapid observation skills, and he’d not recognized his best friend’s voice.

 

“Vamp…”

 

His voice was scratchy and too soft but Vampire heard because the prayers stopped and then he was looming over Matt, that was the only word for it. His hands skimmed Matt's body. Too gentle, that wasn’t Vampiro. Not the guy who'd made Mexico bleed and love it, who sat next to Matt every week in the Temple.

 

“Finally woke, brother?”

 

Matt nodded his head slightly and coughed, which really didn’t make the headache any better. Vampiro helped him sit up; a strong arm curled at his back, and lifted a water glass to Matt’s lips, making sure he drank every slow drop. Then he got Matt to lie down again, touching Matt’s hand too lightly. There were tattoos on Vamp’s fingers, were there more now than there had been only a few hours ago?

 

Matt frowned. He couldn’t even make out Vampiro’s features because Vamp was right in front of the light and Matt had been concentrating on the pain and on drinking from the glass before. Now his eyes were watering.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“A much darker place.”

 

There was a tenor of humor in Vampiro’s tone and Matt wondered with quick tension if he was talking to Pentagon Dark’s master or to Ian Hodgkinson. Matt had always called him Vampiro no matter what, because Vampiro always answered him. Even when he didn’t take his medication, when his face had been painted white and his eyes had been black, Vampiro hadn't laid a hand on Matt.

 

“The Temple,” Matt surmised.

 

Vampiro nodded, the light flickered around him now. “No one’ll come.”

 

A possible threat. The tension was taking over Matt’s whole body now and the pain that wasn’t in his head was growing. How was this night going to end?

 

“What happened up there? What did he do?”

 

Vampiro’s silhouette shifted slightly but he didn’t stay quiet.

 

“He came at me, man. Carved me up good. He learned and graduated.”

 

Matt tried to sit up, too quick because his headache spiked. Vampiro was there, handling him down again, his hands gentle and firm, good.

 

“You’re okay?”

 

A stupid vague question, the kind Matt always counted himself above. He was precise. Vampiro laughed, it wasn’t bitter or humorless. That loosened the edge of Matt’s tension.

 

“He’s gone now. The cops took Cueto, it’s crazy up there.”

 

Dario had gotten arrested? Matt had always known Dario’s dealings weren’t completely clean – research and preparedness always paid off – but he ran a good show and kept his employees out of anything that’d bring the Temple down. Of course Matt had planned more than one exit just in case, only this wasn’t any of them.

 

“Catrina in charge?”

 

“No one’s seen her, man. Out of there like smoke. No one’s claimed the office yet either. Pentagon left before the questions started.”

 

Questions. The cops, right. Which explained why Vampiro had gotten out of there. He never liked uniforms. Though why Matt was out of the way too was another mystery. Vampiro placed a hand – scarred, dry, strong – on top of one of Matt’s. That was better.

 

“They’re not looking for answers. They want this all clean and us lined up.”

 

“Dario or the cops?”

 

“Both, either, both. They're not down here though.”

 

Vampiro’s other hand touched Matt’s head, slowly probing for something, the root of the problem. When Vamp found it, Matt hissed; no matter how expected it was, the pain of the problem being found was still a blinding sting. Vampiro’s hand became soothing. He turned and reached and Matt saw, under the sudden flare of dim light, a streak of blood down the back of Vampiro’s head and neck. He was wearing a black shirt, worn at the collar. No robes.

 

When Vampiro turned back, he carried a cool cloth, soaked in something that stung when he pressed it to Matt’s head. Matt didn’t complain, just grimaced and leaned into it. It was a better sting than the pain. And he didn’t want an infection; he didn’t want to be away from this. The cops could close the Temple, evidence maybe? Crime scene? It depended on Dario and what they had.

 

There were several planned exits Matt could take now. But Vampiro had talked to him a lot about the Temple, about it living on as a place for lucha, and how this land had been fought on for centuries before Dario had even thought about buying it. Vampiro told a lot of stories, Matt did a lot of research too and there were crossovers. He’d talked to Aerostar, Fenix and Drago. He'd seen how anything was possible in the Temple, and had learned how everything had been possible before it too. He’d really enjoyed the Temple, his work, the people. For the first time in...well, he knew exactly how many years, there’d been a sense, if not of belonging, then of something falling into place, especially at ringside.

 

Vampiro’s hand was dry and Matt could feel scar tissue and fresh nicks.

 

Matt could see Vamp's face clearly at last. There were smears of blood and cuts still healing and a look that Matt could feel beating in his own chest. It was the quickest clearest sense Matt's thoughts had made since waking up.

 

“This Temple can’t be broken,” he stated, surer and surer, grasping that clarity as his head and chest still throbbed in two tones, his hand still covered by Vampiro’s. “The history of the seven tribes is embedded here, it’s watered by the blood and sweat of its luchadors, and-.”

 

Vampiro surged down and mashed his mouth to Matt’s. Yes, exactly. Matt sunk his hands past familiar fabric and pinched at tattooed skin. Was that a trace of blood he was licking? He sank deeper and leaned into the pain. The Temple was still here.

 

When they stopped – Matt was sure he could hear sirens – Vampiro’s eyes were almost black. Matt’s hands felt white-knuckled. In Matt’s pocket was Vampiro’s pill bottle, half-full, on Matt’s person at Vampiro’s request. That felt like years ago. Vampiro’s jaw was tense, like he’d been baring his teeth. One of his hands was still pressed to Matt’s head.

 

“We move when they do.”

 

Matt’s mouth felt empty and as aching as his chest and head. He was still leaning in. Vampiro’s hand slid down to Matt’s neck, settling comfortably at the side, squeezing just tight enough. More tension undid inside of Matt; he’d forgotten it was there at all.

 

_-the end_


End file.
